Aunty jee, please stay out of my reproductive system. It isn’t a HUM TV drama that you can discuss and analyze and evaluate day in and day out. They’re called the ‘privates’ for a reason, aunty jee, don’t you see?

You might not agree because you feel that your years of experience in child birth and child rearing give you some level of authority on every woman’s ovaries, but just look at how ridiculous you’re being. Yes, you may have given birth to five healthy (read: obese) children, but that doesn’t mean the purpose of my existence is to do the same. You may think you’ve done God’s great work by reproducing like no tomorrow, but really, a rabbit does that, too.

There can be more than just one type of ‘good news,’ aunty jee. Like, getting promoted, or receiving an award or Kiran slapping Sikandar full in the face. Every time I crave something khatta isn’t cause for suspicion. And the few pounds I’ve packed over the past two weeks shouldn’t make you think it’s anything but subterraneous fat.

And please stop calling my career a baby killer. My career isn’t spermicide. Do you think that my computer is emitting rays that are slowly frying my eggs into mush? Or do you really believe that sitting on a desk 40 hours a week is inflicting irreparable damage to my uterus? Or, perhaps, you labour under the impression that using my brain in a productive way will cause my ovaries to shrivel and die? Contrary to your opinion, aunty jee, my career has no bearing on my ability to have children.

The funda of the ‘unda’ is simple, aunty jee. The more you poke, probe and pry, the more stressed out my unda will be. And stress is no good for the unda, you see?

It’s shadi season. And here you are, again, searching for clues to the trussed up aunty’s identity, who’s hugging, kissing, and fondling you like your mother never did. Her face resembles the aunty’s next to her. In fact, they all look the same. Heavily kohl-ed eyes, poo-colored lipstick, dead straight hair with blond highlights. She’s asking you about your parhai or husband or children or lack of husband and children, and you’re smiling and saying that everything is going okay, alhamdulillah, mashaallah, jazakallah. Now it’s your turn to pick up the line of questioning. But you can’t, because you don’t know who the hell this aunty is, how you know her (and vice versa) and why she feels the need to wear foundation two shades lighter than her skin tone. You’re still smiling, grasping for something coherent to say. She’s still smiling, waiting for you to ask her about her life.

*awkward pause*

Then you have a breakthrough: you remember that genius flowchart you saw on The Aunty Blog on how to handle an Aunty Doe and you sigh a deep sigh of relief.

Aunty, let me give this to you straight: I don’t want to add you on Facebook.

It’s not just that you have absolutely zero stalking potential, because all you ever share are recipes or pictures of your children and/or grandchildren. It’s also because I don’t want you judging me because I dropped the F-bomb in my comments or because I put a picture of myself in what you consider scandalous clothing (read: pant shirt).

Another thing I don’t appreciate is you BLOWING UP MY NEWSFEED because of your incessant desire to comment on anything and everything on Facebook. Yes, I know that you are dying to know the price of everything from Gul Ahmed’s lawn collection, but for the LOVE OF GOD, please don’t spam my Facebook with it. I can’t see another lawn print showing up on my home page. I will burn all my lawn suits, take the remains and feed them to your cat if I do.

Say No to aunties on Facebook!

Also, please refrain from commenting on everything I share. It creeps me out when you dig up pictures I shared over three years ago and ask me what designer lawn I’m wearing. It’s not fun when you tell me everything is an American conspiracy when I share any kind of political views. And when you continuously ‘like’ anything I post within seconds of me posting it, I get a tad bit freaked out.

Oh, and just because it’s on Facebook, DOESN’T MAKE IT TRUE. That banana peel doesn’t have ‘Allah’ written on it, that fish doesn’t have five heads, and that baby isn’t doing cartwheels. Those are hoaxes. And your desire to repost all of that like it’s Holy Scripture drives me up the wall. Especially when it’s accompanied by comments like, “Witnes miracul of God” or “Dese r signs of Day of Judgment!”

So Aunty. Hope you get the hint the next time you ask me about that friendship request you sent me, and I tell you that I just don’t use Facebook anymore.

If you’ve had the pleasure of attending a desi wedding, and you happen to be a girl, then you know what it feels like to be ogled. In Canada, though, ogling is taken to the next level. That’s mainly because weddings happen to be one of the few places where you will witness a large number of desis (the population of a small village) and an even larger number of desi girls (my desi girrlllll, my desi girlll) together.

If you’re under the impression that people are there to see the bride, YOU ARE WRONG, my friend. People are there to see you. And all the other single ladies there. If you’re a single lady, or just a lady who doesn’t look like someone’s mother, be prepared to be stared at, scrutinized and interrogated.

According to the infallible aunty logic, if the girl’s a good dancer, she’s obviously a mean cook; if she’s got dholki skills, it undoubtedly means she’s going to clean like a machine; and if she’s gori chitti and under size 2, then your son will definitely fall head over heels in love with her because who cares about intelligence and personality anyway.

The worst part is that everyone has accepted this system — moms wear the number of proposals as a badge of honor, girls celebrate their ‘shadi material’ status, and aunties continue to set up unsuspecting girls just attending their friend’s shadi with their overprotected, underpaid, and underwhelming sons, brothers, friend’s sons and brothers, or other random family members.